


Creative ways to express camaraderie

by robotboy



Series: The Doksany Stories [4]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: (no PTSD during the first time), Episode Related, Episode: s01e04 The Good Soldier, First Time, M/M, MuskiesRewatch, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-12
Updated: 2017-11-12
Packaged: 2019-02-01 06:35:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12699384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robotboy/pseuds/robotboy
Summary: Aramis is trying to find himself after Savoy, and along the way he finds Porthos.





	Creative ways to express camaraderie

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Aramis has PTSD symptoms, including depersonalisation, insomnia, and survivor's guilt. Porthos does not have healing dick, but there's a general arc of recovery as they get to know each other.

Nothing was the same after Savoy, except it was.

The garrison felt half-empty, but Serge still served him breakfast with a warm smile. Cadets still sparred in the courtyard. Treville still watched over them from the balcony.

Treville had offered Aramis leave, but he hadn’t looked surprised when Aramis turned it down. It felt too much like running away—too much like Marsac. And it would be too easy to spend the time tracking him down, begging him to come home. Aramis knew already that was folly.

So he stayed among the Musketeers. Treville let him drift with regiments; whichever were staying close to Paris. Aramis was never with one group long enough to wake with panic swooping in his stomach and a certainty these men could be snatched away as easily as the last. Still, it kept him in motion, muscle memory taking over when the rest of him seized up.

More than anything, he hated the sympathy. It cut too close to the despair he was working so hard to build himself around. It dragged him under often enough, when he was alone, or had two more cups of wine than he should. It did him no good to be reminded.

_Aramis_  felt like a mask he’d put on. He hadn’t felt that way since he was  _René_ , swept off to his father’s house. The same words he’d have said unthinking a month ago tasted sour in his mouth now.

Once in a while, though, he forgot he was anyone but himself. It happened when he was busy, too busy for doubt to pull him out of his skin. Treville kept him that way. Twenty-one men lost from their ranks meant new recruits were needed. Treville picked soldiers, mostly, men who had some training: there was no time for a batch of fresh cadets. Aramis was to improve their shooting, as Treville told him: ‘They're fine fighters in a melee, but they can't well be musketeers if they've never learned to aim.’

With a target in his sights and an arquebus in his hands, he knew who he was.

Among his trainees was Porthos, an enormous musketeer with a dashing eyepatch. Aramis didn’t know him well, but recognised that the scar running the length of his face was fresh.

‘Never had to aim with one eye before,’ Porthos explained. ‘And I’ve seen how well you shoot. Wouldn’t mind learning myself.’

Aramis was charmed immediately—by Porthos’ looks, by the flattery, and by the devilish grin that followed it.

Porthos was a quick study, and disciplined in practicing. The day he first hit the bullseye, he persuaded Aramis to the tavern to celebrate.

‘It’s your achievement as much as mine,’ he insisted.

Aramis let himself be taken, though he drank little. Porthos fleeced him in a game of cards, and Aramis would have paid twice as much for Porthos’ company. He had laughter that filled a room and a sincerity Aramis envied.

‘Doctor says the eye’s probably salvageable,’ Porthos told him as he poured himself another wine. ‘But I won’t be as ravishing without the eyepatch.’

‘I’d have imagined your ability to ravish is quite unconditional,’ Aramis replied.

He regretted it immediately. Flirting was as instinctive as breathing, though he was often accused of being insincere. He believed it now: the insinuation sounded flat and affected the moment it left him.

Porthos only gave him a curious look.

Porthos never hit a bullseye more than once in a session, but his average shot improved with halting progress. Aramis joined him at the tavern more often, and Porthos never let him disappear inside himself after two more cups of wine than he should have drunk. He knew when to joke Aramis out of it and when to let him reflect. Porthos’ silences were warm, like embers of a fire left stoked for the night. Like a body beside him in bed.

Aramis thought of that more than once, though he bit his tongue when the urge to flirt possessed him again.

It was easier when Porthos joined him for breakfast. Aramis slept badly after Savoy, and Porthos softened his rough edges in the morning. Porthos happily took the food he picked around.

Porthos brought him snacks, too, when Aramis shut himself away in his quarters too long. If his candle was lit after midnight, on nights when he couldn’t bear to try sleeping, Porthos knocked on his door bearing bread, cheese, sometimes sausages. Aramis never knew if Serge passed them along or if Porthos stole them: Serge was kind, but Porthos was equally an excellent thief. Aramis talked Porthos through volumes on medicine, and scripture on nights when Aramis was consumed by the thought;  _if I'd known this, whom could I have saved?_ He asked smart questions, or brought a book of his own.

‘Doesn’t it frustrate you?’ Aramis asked him one night. ‘Being taught to shoot again?’

Porthos considered for a moment. ’A little,’ he answered, putting his book down. ‘I’d got rusty even in the time it took to get the stitches out. Drove me half-mad, all the years of training and the simplest things going wrong. It’s different, practicing things you already know. Feels harder.’

He cut a slice of cheese and spread it on the bread he’d brought, then passed it to Aramis. Aramis nibbled it.

‘But what’s the other option?’ Porthos mused. ‘Be rusty? Nah. Just had to swallow my pride until it felt natural again.’

He waited until Aramis had the bread in his mouth before continuing: ‘At least I’m good at swallowing.’

Aramis choked.

He had begun to trust himself again, the certainty he felt with the arquebus carrying over to the rest of his life—but  _this_.

It wasn’t the matter of a liaison with Porthos: of course, he’d do it in a heartbeat. He’d enjoyed more than his share of casual affairs with fellow musketeers. Drunken fumbles in alleys behind taverns, and mutual relief when camping on the road; Aramis prided himself in creative ways to express camaraderie. Marsac had been different. Marsac, he loved— _had_ loved. Marsac broke his heart in a way he’d not thought possible after Isabelle, the pain of it knotted up in the grief of Savoy.

Aramis suspected that perhaps he loved Porthos too. And he was unsure if he could bear it a third time.

Or—was he assuming? Was his heart so desperately empty after losing Marsac that it clung to anything it could? Had he mistaken pity for affection, innuendo for proposition, companionship for—

‘Hey,’ Porthos’ voice shook him from his reverie. ‘It was a joke. Don’t think anything of it.’

His expression was wary. Afraid, Aramis realised. He cursed himself for being a fool again.

‘No!’ Aramis implored. Porthos went to move away, and Aramis covered his hand on the table. ‘No, I… I like the joke.’

Porthos’ eye was searching his face, fingers shifting under Aramis’ touch.

Aramis spoke softly. ‘I think we share a sense of humour.’

‘Hm,’ Porthos smiled a private smile. His hand lingered under Aramis’.

Aramis took a deep breath, and slid his book aside. He opened his mouth, hoping some witty seduction would follow.

Instead, Porthos kissed him.

Aramis quailed, as though the kiss were his very first. He whimpered into Porthos’ mouth—such a soft, sure mouth—and let Porthos manhandle him until he was seated in Porthos’ lap. His hands found themselves clutching Porthos’ face, entreating him for more. Porthos reciprocated, his kisses generous, sincere, and all-consuming. Aramis remembered himself—the libertine, the scoundrel—and slipped his tongue between Porthos’ lips.

That incited something else entirely. It was filthy, the way Porthos’ tongue flicked against his and twisted into his mouth. His teeth grazed Aramis’ lip, and when Aramis offered his mouth again, Porthos nibbled—then sucked hard. Aramis’ fingers scratched through Porthos’ beard and he wriggled in Porthos’ lap.

Porthos had one hand clasped to Aramis’ shoulder, the other securing his waist. Aramis’ movement rucked his shirt up, where it had already hung loose. Porthos quickly found Aramis’ skin, following the line of his hip to the dusting of hair at his stomach, trailing up—kissing him all the while—to Aramis’ chest, across to his nipple. He rubbed the flat of his palm there, making Aramis sigh. Then he tweaked, grin flashing against Aramis’ lips.

‘Porthos?’ Aramis breathed, pressing his forehead against Porthos’.

‘Yeah?’ Porthos was still smiling.

‘Take me to bed?’ Aramis asked.

Porthos hoisted Aramis’ legs around him and stood easily. They stayed wrapped in each other as Porthos dropped onto the bed, his solid weight bearing down on Aramis. In this position, Aramis’ growing erection was pressing obviously into Porthos’ stomach. Porthos moved to wrangle Aramis’ shirt off, sitting back on his heels. Aramis sprawled, tipping his chin to watch Porthos unlace his braies. Porthos made a show of it, gently pulling one lace away until Aramis’ cock sprung free. Aramis eased his legs up to let Porthos pull the braies off. Porthos took hold of Aramis’ ankle, kissing his calf before letting Aramis’ legs fall around his waist. He took a long, hungry look at Aramis in in the low candlelight.

‘Take your time,’ Aramis said. ‘Since you’ve only got the one eye.’

Porthos made an approving noise. ‘Bet it’ll be twice as good with two.’

That suggested they would do this again—Aramis tucked the promise away in his mind.

Porthos peppered kisses from Aramis’ belly to his neck, nuzzling to find the parts that made Aramis ticklish. Aramis squirmed, trying to steer Porthos, until he was over Aramis again, their noses bumping. Aramis dragged Porthos’ shirt over his head, and Porthos dived back in, this time latching his mouth to Aramis’ throat. Aramis moaned, clinging to him, as Porthos teased the sensitive skin with his lips and teeth. When he reached Aramis’ ear he uttered a low, approving growl.

‘You like that, don’t you?’

Aramis nodded. Porthos nipped his earlobe, causing Aramis to let out an undignified whimper.

‘Like this?’ Porthos rolled his hips, the length of his cock pressing between the cheeks of Aramis’ arse. Aramis sighed, nodding.

Porthos pushed a few more times before Aramis started scrabbling with urgency, trying to reach the bindings of Porthos’ trousers. Porthos teased him a little longer before shifting to take them off, his braies going too. Aramis hardly let him move, though all of it: now he was so close to someone again, he couldn’t bear to let Porthos go. But Porthos returned, and this time his cock was hot and bare sliding along Aramis’ rear, and Aramis would have fallen back if he’d had any further to fall.

He linked his ankles behind Porthos’ back, hips tilting up to meet the movement. Porthos made a sound like a lion purring, rocking more intently. He bent down to press his mouth to Aramis’ cheek. Aramis was panting too hard for it to be called a kiss, but their lips brushed and caught. Their skin was warm everywhere they slid against each other. Aramis wrapped his arms around Porthos’ neck.

Porthos fell into a rhythm, hips working earnestly. Aramis could clench and catch him, the crease of his arse getting slick with sweat and precome.

When the head of Porthos’ cock brushed Aramis’ hole, he whined. Porthos adjusted, teasing him a few more times.

‘ _Oh_ , Aramis surged against him. ‘Can’t you just…?’

‘Think you can take it?’ Porthos asked him soberly. ‘Tonight?’

‘… no,’ Aramis grumbled. ‘But I  _want_ to.’

‘Good to hear,’ Porthos chuckled. ‘Keep it tight like that?’

Aramis nodded, his hands roaming across Porthos’ shoulders. He grasped the taut muscle in Porthos’ upper arm, feeling it bunch as Porthos moved. His thrusts got quicker, and Aramis moved in a sharper rhythm against him. Porthos huffed, his head dropping to Aramis’ collarbone. He shuddered as he came, making a thorough mess of Aramis in the process. Aramis stroked his cheek, thumb brushing the damp edges of his hairline. Porthos smiled again, teeth glinting, making Aramis smile back.

‘Now,’ Porthos asked when he’d caught his breath. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘Whatever you like,’ Aramis volunteered. He stretched sinuously.

Porthos raised his eyebrows, hand dipping between Aramis’ cheeks. His fingers twisted, scooping come, and stroked against Aramis’ hole.

‘Oh,  _yes_ ,’ Aramis sighed. ‘You can do  _that_ for me.’

Porthos circled, taking his time, until Aramis grunted in frustration. Refusing to be rushed, Porthos shifted his weight to his left, his body nestled along Aramis’ side and his right hand free. Only then did he press his finger in. He explored slowly, sinking only to the first knuckle. After so much teasing, Aramis was beginning to fray at the edges. His heels dug into Porthos’ back as he angled his hips up, taking Porthos as deep as he could.

One fit comfortably, and two made for a stretch. Porthos wasn’t working him open with purpose, though: he slid in and out, finding which movements made Aramis whimper or shiver or jolt. He practiced each, with the same damned focus he had when he was shooting.

Aramis had a curse on the tip of his tongue when Porthos curled his fingers. It became a shout, Aramis’ world tilting on its axis when Porthos pressed the spot again.

‘Ssh,’ Porthos murmured. ‘You’ll wake someone.’

‘The…’ Aramis tried to collect himself. ‘The quarters next to mine are empty. If you want me quieter, you mustn’t do tha— _ah!_ ’

Porthos did it again.

Aramis scraped his nails along his hip, trying to quell the rush of feeling.

‘Go on,’ Porthos suggested, and Aramis blinked. ‘Work with me.’

Aramis huffed in relief at the realisation he could, hand wrapping around his cock. Porthos rocked inside him, slipping half-out to make Aramis quiver in anticipation, then sinking in until it was the only thing Aramis could feel. Aramis kept his own touch easy, overwhelmed enough by the way Porthos crooked his fingers. He could hardly tell how loud he was, and he buried his face in Porthos’ neck to stifle himself. Porthos crooked his fingers again, striking harder each time, and seemed to pull the orgasm from deep inside Aramis. Aramis’ whole body curled around Porthos and he shook through it, wishing he could bury himself in the heat and smell and texture of this wondrous man.

His thoughts meandered back slowly, prompted by a brief twitch of Porthos’ fingers within him.

‘Don’t go,’ Aramis said stupidly, leaning his hips into Porthos’ touch. He felt Porthos grin against his hair.

‘I’ll be back,’ he murmured, which was ridiculous and sweet enough that Aramis let him withdraw with minimal complaining.

As his sweat cooled, Aramis realised he had to move. He fumbled for his discarded braies and wiped come from his front and back, letting Porthos clean his fingers as well. He dragged himself from the bed to toss the braies in the corner and blow the candle out.

Porthos hadn’t made any move to get up. Aramis was boneless by the time he was back in the bed. Porthos eased the covers over both of them, and Aramis wanted very much to say something endearing. There was so much, though—how to tell Porthos what it meant, if Porthos were concerned with that at all, and where to find the words in such a mess. Satisfaction was chased too quickly by the familiar unease of drifting asleep. Aramis dug himself thoroughly into Porthos’ embrace, willing the doubt away and placing a small, grateful kiss on Porthos’ chest.

He’d felt like a jug that had broken in two, being clasped together so only the seam of the crack appeared. Held too loosely, everything would fall into a terrible mess. Held too tightly, he'd shatter, and then he’d truly be useless.

Porthos held him just right.

And he was still there when dawn came. If Aramis hadn’t already believed in a higher power, he would have for that.

‘Morning,’ Porthos kissed his temple, as though they’d done this a thousand mornings.

Aramis groaned, stretching like a cat. ‘It is, isn’t it.’

‘Mmhmm,’ Porthos affirmed. ‘You always sleep that badly?’

‘That was a better one, actually,’ Aramis reflected. Then he thought about what he’d said. ‘If you’d rather not—’

‘Ssh,’ Porthos interrupted. ‘’s worth it.’

‘If you say so,’ Aramis heaved himself from under the covers, reaching clumsily for his clothes. Porthos followed, his movements languid. When Aramis bent to put on a new set of braies, Porthos gave him a sharp tap on the behind. Aramis almost toppled over.

‘Still think I need target practice?’ Porthos smirked.

‘Come anyway,’ Aramis told him. ‘At least you make me feel I’ve made  _some_ progress.’

‘Give yourself credit,’ Porthos said, pulling on the rest of his things. ‘Some of them are pretty good now.’

Aramis finished dressing, and checked the hall was clear before they both left. Porthos was close by his side, just enough that Aramis still felt the warmth of him.

‘I suppose,’ Aramis mused as he walked down the hallway. ‘That noble one’s a better shot than you, but he was already good.’

Porthos leaned down to murmur in his ear. ‘Well, he didn’t have the  _special attention_  I got. Imagine what he could do if he did.’

Aramis laughed as they rounded the corner to the kitchens. ‘I would—if I could even recall his name.’

Porthos took a pair of apples and tossed one to Aramis.

‘It’s Athos.’

**Author's Note:**

> Doksany stories will slow down a bit after this! Hopefully this one being long and cute will tide you over. These are all written on the fly so please don't hesitate to comment if you see a typo.


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